The moment my palm makes contact with his skin, it's like breathing again after being underwater. His flesh is warm andsolid beneath my touch, the muscle tense with barely contained energy. A shudder runs through his massive frame, and his eyes flutter closed as if my touch causes him actual pain.
"Thalia." My name on his lips sounds like a prayer, rough and desperate.
He moves faster than something his size should be able to, surging forward to capture my mouth with his. The kiss is hard and hungry, full of aching need and frustration that tastes like copper and want. His tusks brush against my cheek as he tilts his head, one massive hand coming up to cup the back of my neck with surprising gentleness.
I kiss him back for one perfect, stolen moment—letting myself drown in the taste of him, the way his thumb traces the line of my jaw with reverent fingers. But reality crashes back like cold water, and I pull away with a gasp.
"Not here."
The words tear from my throat, raw with regret. He freezes, his forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling in the space between us. I can feel the war raging inside him—the same one that's been tearing me apart since the goddess marked me as something more than a servant.
We hold each other like that for one heartbeat longer than wisdom allows. His hand trembles against my neck, and I memorize the weight of it, the callused texture of his palm. Then he's pulling away, rising to his feet with the fluid grace of a predator.
He doesn't look back as he slips through the tent flap, leaving me alone with the guttering candle and the ghost of his touch burning against my skin.
The moment he's gone, I clutch my chest where my heart hammers. The ache there feels like it might split me open, spill all my carefully guarded secrets onto the dirt floor.
This can't go on. We both know it, even if neither of us has the courage to say it aloud.
24
GALTHAN
Sleep eludes me like an enemy scout—always just beyond reach, slipping away the moment I think I've cornered it. I lie on my back, staring at the canvas ceiling of my tent while my mind churns with thoughts I shouldn't be having. Her bandaged hands. The way she didn't flinch when I kissed her. The golden vine that marked her as something sacred, something mine.
The taste of her still lingers on my lips, sweet as honey mead and twice as intoxicating.
I roll onto my side, then my stomach, searching for a position that doesn't remind me of how perfectly she fit against me. The bedroll beneath me feels like stone, every thread in the rough fabric an irritation against my skin. My braids tangle around my shoulders, the bone beads clicking together with each restless movement.
The festival grounds have finally quieted—no more drunken singing or the clash of practice weapons. Just the whisper of wind through canvas and the distant crackle of dying fires. Even the Harvest Goddess's eternal pyre seems muted tonight, its glow barely visible through the tent walls.
I close my eyes and immediately see her face—the way she looked at me in that flickering candlelight, vulnerable and fierce all at once. The memory sends heat shooting through my belly, pooling low and urgent. I curse under my breath and sit up, running scarred hands through my hair.
This is madness. I'm a warrior, not some lovesick whelp mooning over a female I can't have. Yet here I am, pacing my tent like a caged beast while she sleeps mere yards away.
The tent flap rustles, and Tarnuk's grizzled face appears in the opening. His broken tusk catches the dim light as he grins, taking in my disheveled state with obvious amusement.
"Restless night, brother?"
I grunt and reach for my water skin, hoping the cool liquid will wash away the taste of her that still clings to my mouth. "Festival noise. Hard to sleep with all the celebration."
"Festival will start soon." He steps fully into my tent, his stocky frame filling the space with familiar presence. The missing fingers on his left hand tap against his thigh—a nervous habit he's carried since the border wars. "You look like you've been wrestling bears."
"Feel like it too."
Tarnuk settles onto the ground across from me, his gray-green skin looking pale in the dim light. We've shared enough campaigns that he can read my moods better than most, which makes him dangerous company when I'm trying to hide something.
"Love-sick warriors are a sight to behold," he says, voice rich with mirth. "All that pacing and sighing. Makes me glad I never caught the fever myself."
I shoot him a glare that would send most orcs scrambling for cover. "I'm not love-sick. Just thinking about clan negotiations."
"Right." His grin widens, showing the gap where his broken tusk used to be whole. "Diplomacy. That's what's got you looking like you've been struck by lightning."
The tent flap stirs again, and two more warriors duck inside—Krugg and Grask, both veterans of my border patrol. They settle beside Tarnuk with the easy familiarity of soldiers who've bled together, their eyes bright with the kind of mischief that usually ends with someone getting punched.
"Heard our fearless leader can't sleep," Krugg says, his voice a low rumble. A fresh scar runs from his left temple to his jaw, souvenir from our last skirmish. "Must be all that diplomatic pressure weighing on him."
"Or maybe," Grask adds with a leer that makes my fists clench, "our boy Galthan has finally come around to his bride-to-be. About time too—Rytha's been giving him looks that could melt steel."
